The Reluctant Property of Derek Hale
by Rational Drunk
Summary: Basically, an adventurish Sterek-centric version of Season 3. Pining/Abused!KickedPuppy!Derek, eventual Derek/Stiles, and a teensy bit of crack. (Rated T for magical cussing. Will definitely be M in later chapters, be forewarned! Or intrigued...)
1. Oh Deer

Hi guys and gals! I am from the distant future, so heed my words!

*hem hem*

Chapter 1 is crap, and I also discovered that I was far too lazy to rewrite it... _so _I'd just recommend you to just skip most of the crap below, but absorb just enough for a general idea and get on to chapter 2.

_CHAPTER 1: Oh Deer_

* * *

_CHAPTER 1: Oh Deer_

The darkened figure dashed through the night, his desperate gasps for air drowned by the cicadas's song, a haunting melody icily orchestrated by the quivering moon-soaked leaves. No one knew why he was in such a hurry, nor could they possibly presume to know, for what matters of urgency could be so pressing as to-

-the shadow fell backwards as his sneakers slid in a puddle of what was hopefully mud, and with a cry and a fanciful twirl that would have earned him enthusiastic plaudits from the most punctilious of ballerinas, he landed with a resolute thud on the forest floor; the echoing slap of his ass being subjugated by gravity falling on the deaf ears of stoically unimpressed cicadas, glassy wings coruscating imperiously a moonlit silver and glittering in the similitude of earthly stars.

"_Ow._"

Groaning, Stiles fell onto his back; then yelped in pain. He reached under his head and extracted a pebble the size of a walnut.

Stiles was beginning to think that this was a really bad idea.

Too bad it was his own.

~(TnT)~

* * *

~(TnT)~

"Scott, calm down," said Peter; who was, unsurprisingly, woefully ignored.

"I can't _believe _that you didn't even _tell_ me about this!" Scott expostulated; his hands flying everywhere, casting rapidly shifting phantasms over the charred wooden boards. "I mean, there's an alpha pack? And how did they find out about you? _Hell_, why are they even _here_? "

"First off, I'm not obligated to tell you anything, since _you_, as you so kindly pointed out, are not a part of my pack." Derek sounded rather irritable, so Stiles surmised that the alpha was still pissed off over the whole mountain-ash-pills incident. Typical sourwolf.

"And secondly," Derek's exasperated voice crashing Stile's train of thought. "I don't know."

"What do you mean you _don't know_? You've been preparing for this for _months_! And by—"

"_I _know," said Peter vapidly, obviously deathly bored by the conversation. All three heads turned to stare, the collective attention eliciting a soft chuckle from the man that Stiles was pretty sure should be _dead_.

Peter beamed, "Haha, just kidding. I don't really know either."

Boy, if looks could kill.

Derek was the first to recover. "It's as Peter says, we don't know." Scott looked just about ready to explode, but Derek didn't give him the chance to speak. "But what we _do _know is that it's the only alpha pack in the country, and that they have been hiking through New Mexico, Arizona, and then California for the past few months. Basically, we're in the alpha pack's itinerary, and judging from the mark vandalized onto my front door…"

The alpha took a deep breath. "They're already here."

The effect on the room was immediate. It was almost as though someone had snuck in and turned the already non-existent heat down by several notches; _burr_, Stiles's hands were hypothetically freezing from the hypothetical cold.

"Err. . . guys?"

Isaac was standing in the hallway, confusion writ large upon his face.

"Sorry I'm late, but I had to sign some papers for school."

"Right," Derek coughed, clearing his throat. "I was briefing McCall about what we know of the alpha pack."

"Which is nothing," added Isaac, tentatively taking a seat.

"The alphas have a history of being unpredictable. Beyond the spiral, which means that they mean business, we have no clue as to _what_ business it is - though I doubt that it's friendly. And without any inside information. . ."

Isaac finished his sentence for him. "We can't brace ourselves against whatever it is that they're going to do."

The room stilled as the frosty silence settled once more.

_Jesus, werewolves and their fondness for abject, hopeless subjection_, thought Stiles as he wiped his hands on his slacks. "Do we know where these alphas are?"

There was something different in Stiles's voice, something that made him sound less jocular than usual and somewhat more... authoritative; and it was that something that turned Derek to stare, intently, unsure of where the room's only human was going with this. "Why?"

"I've got an idea." Stiles's throat was suddenly a little dry. "So do we know where they are, or not?"

(o.O)?

* * *

(o.O)?

And _that's_ how Stiles ended up _here_; on the forest floor, sporting a growing bump on the back of his head with one hand clenched around the offending rock, and the other covered in what'd better be mud.

Life's a bitch.

Stiles was finally considering getting off the ground when he heard leaves rustle; at first, he wondered if it was just the wind, when the ground pressing against his back trembled... but oh so very slightly, that Stiles wasn't even sure if he felt it, or just imagi—

_Footsteps_.

Oh. _Crap_.

He held his breath, figuring that whoever, or _what_ever it was couldn't sense him if he just lay still. The undergrowth and foliage around here is thick; so if he were lucky, he wouldn't be noticed.

_Rustling. More footsteps._

_The trick_, Stiles thinks, _is to consciously regulate your breathing and pulse. Take a nice, long deep breath_. No, _not too loud_. Next, he should work on thinking of peaceful, happy things.

He immediately drew upon the time his dad brought him to the butterfly farm, where the sheriff belatedly discovered an unusual phobia. Tragically enough, father and son are banned from Jeremy's Butterfly Farm for life, because firing shots at apparently bloodthirsty butterflies and nearly taking off the farm owner's head is an immediate red card.

Stiles snickered.

_Oops_.

The footsteps paused for a heartbeat before resuming their pace; the stranger was headed this way.

_Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap._

Okay, _don't panic_. What do people in the movies do in situations like these? They freeze shock still, sweat a lot, and pout. _Right_, tried that, didn't work out too well, and the footsteps are closing in on him by the second. What _else_? Right, they whip out a gun and—nope, no gun, and no light-saber either. Or maybe there's some other weapon, perhaps something within reach, something at hand. . .

Two glowing embers stared down into his eyes.

_"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"_

Stiles threw the pebble into the stranger's face, backing away frantically across the mossy ground even as the red eyes narrowed in pained confusion. He struggled to lift himself to his feet; failing again and again as panic and mud robbed him of woefully missed friction; leaving both the now silent cicadas _and_ his malevolent harbinger of impending doom sorely unimpressed. The figure shifted, the darkness proving light an unnecessary device to convey a scowl.

Derek stepped out into the moonlight, and as the silvery luminescence shone down softly upon his face, Stiles saw that it isn't a happy face. At all.

Stiles bit down on his tongue as he fought the irrational urge to start screaming again.

"Stiles?" The voice was measured, contained… barely.

"Derek! Err. . . hi?" said Stiles with a nervous smile. Derek didn't smile back.

"What are you doing in the middle of the woods?"

"I was kind of taking a shortcut. What are _you_ doing here anyway, hunting for rabbits? Dancing around naked under the moonlight? _Fly fishing_? Or were you. . . _stalking_ me?" Stiles smiled winsomely. Derek's eyes hardened.

"Their den is downtown. _This_. . . is not downtown," said Derek.

"A laudable deduction, most certainly befitting of an alpha mind. Bravo, Derek," Stiles started clapping, his applause and admiration the only sounds echoing throughout the night. "_Bravo!_"

Derek wordlessly lifted the back of his moonlit hand. Stiles eyed it curiously, then blanched as it sprouted a row of viciously glinting claws like a razorblade toaster oven.

"I repeat. What are you doing here? Are you _running away_?" Derek paused, his eyes narrowing. "No. . . as much of an idiot as you are (_hey!_), I think that you're just too stupid to be afraid. Or is this a part of yet _another_ plan that I'm _unaware _of?"

Derek spat out the last sentence, his eyes flashing a smouldering red. Boy_, does this guy have letting go issues._

"Okay, I—would you _please_ tuck those nail extensions away? They're distracting. _God_." Stiles squeezed his forehead, driving a thumb into his right temple. "Here's the thing. My truck is, as you very well know, in the car nursing home at the moment, so I had to walk all the way to the alphas' den. _Walk_. No thanks to you, of course. There I was, all ready to put my _ass_ on the line for you and you didn't even _think _to offer me a ride in that fancy car of yours. In fact, if you ask me, that lack of gratitude right there is a fine example of why you fail as an alph—(_a_ _growl_) Okay, okay! You're such a _sourwolf_." Stiles grimaced, then continued. "I was taking a shortcut through the woods' southern edge, because, you know, I was _walking._ There I was, moving along, minding my own business, when I thought I heard something and I saw this. . . err, this. . ." Stiles trailed off uncertainly.

"Saw what, exactly?" Derek asked, impatient.

"A chimera. A huge, fire-breathing chimera with venomous lamprey fangs and a scorpion tail and a mane of hissing snakes and a patch over its eye like a pir—"

"Stiles. . ."

"It was a vampire! Yeah, but not the lame sparkly kind like the one from Twilight, _this_ one had a cool cape and an accent and it turned into a bat and it started f—"

"Stiles—"

"It was my chemistry teacher, Mr. Harris! He—"

"Stiles!" Derek snapped, his eyes a pair of burning coals.

"It was Bambi," Stiles said quietly.

"What?"

Stiles stared determinedly at his feet.

"A fucking deer. I don't know why, maybe it's because I didn't cry when Bambi's mom died or something; but it just honest to God _glared_ at me and started chasing me." Stiles scratched his forehead, his arm obscuring his face. "Then I got lost because it was already too dark to make out any of the tracks. There, are you _happy_ now?"

Derek gawked at him with a look that clearly said:_ you're an idiot._

"Whatever, I'm just completely worn out right now, and it's too late anyway so I'll just go tomorrow." Stiles groaned, and he wasn't sure if it was from the exhaustion or embarrassment, or possibly a combination of both. What he _knew _was that he just wants to go home, collapse into his bed and sleep it all off. The only problem was, the ground here feels mighty comfy.

Stile propped an arm under his head, and fell back on to the forest floor; this time, intentionally. _Hmm, there's a VIP view of the stars here_. _Not too shabby._

"What are you doing?" Derek asked, want flashing briefly across his face. Stiles, being Stiles, didn't notice.

"Maybe you bigshot alphas don't need it anymore, but we humans occasionally have to do this curious little 8 hour activity every day. I'm not really _sure_ if you've ever heard of it before, but it's called _sleeping_."

"In the middle of the forest?" Derek asked skeptically.

"Yeah, got a problem with that?"

"Bambi might."

Stiles seemed torn, then steeled. "I'll take my chances."

"Get up."

"No."

Stiles watched silently as the alpha padded across the forest floor, finally slowing to a towering halt at his feet.

"I can't leave you here. Now get up."

"Make me. Wait_ what the f—_"

And that is how Stiles wound up in Derek's arms, fists raining a slew of tragically ineffectual blows on the werewolf's steely chest; his body bobbing up and down like driftwood with every step that his captor took.

He should have been upset with this crippling emasculation; but the sad and sorry truth is that, after tonight, he just can't be sure if he even _had_ any machismo left to be emasculated. . . and he was just far too tired to care. The anger Stiles felt at being manhandled and carried patronizingly like a naughty child was fading away, every movement rocking his body gently, and carefully, like a newborn babe. He should find the close proximity invasive, but it felt safe instead; Derek's strong arms beneath him and his musky scent instilling within him an unbelievably soothing sense of security. He attempts at one last wriggle, but his captor's chest was just far too seductively warm and comfortable for even Houdini to possibly escape. . .

As Stiles started snoring against his chest, the corners of Derek's lips slowly curled upwards in the day's first smile.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

Notes:

i) My first fic! So do please forgive me in your reviews. . . which you _will_ write because** REVIEW OR DIE.**

ii) It was really hard for me to do Stiles, because I'm rather British, and Stiles is just so very, _very_ American.

iii) If it's of any interest, I'm a very male, testosterone-filled guy. I'm just putting this out there because this probably means eventual porn.


	2. Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?

_CHAPTER 2: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?_

* * *

_CHAPTER 2: Can Paula Abdul Lose Her Head?_

Stiles hates Twilight. He hates the sacrilegious vandalism of his favourite monster. He hates the vacillating, hyperventilating, _useless _girl who constantly pouts at her own uselessness. He hates the creepy bedside stalking of. . . what was his name again? Vladimir? Maximilian?_ . . . Englebert? _

Never mind.

Despite his general contempt for the movies, Stiles discovers that he rather liked the hunky werewolf; or at least, he likes him much more than that creepy bedstalker Englebert. Then he realizes that he can't quite recall his name either, so he considers it as a testament to his bisexuality when he substitutes it with the appellation: "O he of the perfect abs".

Being a hunky werewolf, however, does _not _make bedside stalking any less creepy.

"Oh my _God_, what the hell is wrong with you?" Stiles snapped, gathering up his bedclothes in a frantic attempt to cover his bare chest; an effort not lost in futility, the darkness an inadequate apparel from those irksome red eyes; some of their many ridiculous supernatural abilities including night vision, glowing, and giving innocent sleepers heart attacks.

The silhouette flinched, blanching at his abrupt and untimely discovery, the only indication of his agitation the mixture of guilt and surprise which flashed briefly through his dilated eyes; an indication which _would _have gone fortuitously unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that they were glowing like a pair of embarrassed, obese fireflies.

Fairness, like so many other abstractions, is an ideal couched only in experience, and one may argue that the alpha's life is enshrouded by the very definition of tragic injustice. Even so, the alpha could not help but lament the unfairness of it all when he was caught out in just two minutes flat, when Edward got away with doing this for _hours._

It is important to note that Derek only watched Twilight because his sister _begged_ him to, and obviously, he did not like it. No really, he didn't.

. . .Oh, just _believe_ him, won't you?

Caught red-handed and red-eyed, Derek could not, for the life of him, plausibly navigate a way out of this shipwreck. He could, however, see the surprise in Stiles's eyes slowly develop into what one could only describe as disgust, a transformation every bit as horrifying as the maelstrom's growing arms, dragging Derek down into a spiraling abyss of anguish and despair.

There's an almost audible "ding" when the imaginary light house flared into life. _Ahah_.

"It's time for you to get up." Derek's voice was archly condescending, brittle in its control.

Stiles flicked his gaze to his clock, the numbers floating a ghostly green light in the void, then turned back to meet the glowing red eyes and the dark blob (that was presumably Derek's head) to gawk in utter disbelief.

"It's three in the morning."

"You said that you were going to undertake the mission today. It is today."

"It's three in the morning."

"I know what time it—"

"It's _three_ . . . in the morning." Stiles's voice was starting to acquire a definite edge.

Derek's steely tone began to falter, the imaginary lighthouse now spluttering pathetically a million miles away, abandoning the ship's captain to gaze down the maelstrom's gaping maw in hopeless desolation; he _really _didn't think this through. "Yes, but the early b—"

"See that bat?" Stiles cut him off with icy efficiency, pointing coolly at the wooden club he keeps propped up against the side of his bed. "Now see your brain?" Red eyes rolled briefly upwards before their confused owner conceded to the anatomical impossibility. "If you don't get your creepy ass out right now," Stiles enunciated each word slowly, with excruciating clarity, "I am going to use _that bat _to very carefully bash out _your brains_."

Derek cringed at the venom in Stile's voice. "But—"

"Out! Now!"

There was a scuffling noise as his window is hurriedly flung open, a sound followed soon after by the unpleasant cold night air buffeting his face. Stiles heaved a sigh of relief when it finally slammed shut, before allowing his head to sink back into the much craved softness of his pillow.

One simply does not piss off a werewolf, and one most certainly does not threaten to bash in the skull of an _alpha _werewolf, especially when said alpha is known psychopath Derek Hale. He was going to have hell to pay come morning, but for now, his breathing evening as the lethargy seeped insipidly back into his bones, he just couldn't care about anything else other than his much-deserved beautiful-Stiles-sleep.

Yawning, Stiles blearily wondered how he got into bed in the first place; failing to do so, he gave up with a lazy shrug of his shoulders, then drifted away contentedly into his pillow; blissfully oblivious to the mournful sound of a certain dejected sourwolf slamming his car door shut.

Derek scowled into the night.

_Or morning_. _Whatever. It didn't seem to matter to short-fused lazybones _idiot _Stiles either way._

~(T-T)~

* * *

~(T-T)~

The tableau vivant is a form of art, pervasively popular before the advent of television, where an actor or a group of actors freeze shock still in mimicry of a photograph. The curiosity of tableaux lies in the incongruous contrast betwixt the confrontational experience presented by live actors and the habitual appropriation and perusal of lifeless photographic images. A most impressive modernist development in the arts, the tableau vivant fails to capture what makes photography excel, but excels in what photography fails to capture.

Stiles's room is a tableau vivant _par excellence_.

See the opened bag of Cheetos lounging upon his desk, its cheesy inhabitants spread everywhere in the likeness of a regurgitating supermodel. Marvel at the discarded shirts and slacks strewn across the floor, in the vivid form of many exotic, if rather deadly flowers in full bloom, warring for dominance over the precious jungle understory. Gasp in amazement as the first golden rays of sun pierce, with considerable effort, though the thick canopy of pristine dust so affectionately coating his windows, the profound respect towards nature having always stilled hand from reaching washcloth.

Cry tears of mirth and awe when you behold the creature lying frozen in its bed, its maw gaping open in a silent snore, on its edge a single trickle of drool shining as imperiously and stoically immovable as the Northern star. The creature is a work of art, the lack of any visible motion a testament to its impeccable depiction of stagnant stasis, its apparent flaccid lifelessness culminating gracefully in the form of statuesque pulchritude, elegance and grandeur._  
_

(Perhaps donning the term "tableau vivant" is a bit of a misnomer, its literal translation being "living picture".)

Alas, that most dastardly of all human inventions, that _philistine_, that _scoundrel_, that _infernal__ alarm clock _shares no such appreciation for transcendent art.

Its screeching wail tears across the room, shattering the spell, and yet the cowardly, mechanical plebeian _bastard_ is nowhere to be seen under the unassuming camouflage of the creature's dirty underwear.

The creature does not so much as flicker.

Sing! Let us all rejoice and _sing _paeans of the creature's incorruptible devotion to the pictorial arts, its professional drive of unwavering immaculacy and precision, its cultured, philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness!

"Stiles, get up." Mr. Stilinski peered through the half-opened door, his arm reaching over to flick the lights on, causing the creature to growl and burrow deeper into its nest. "It's seven already."

The creature did not budge. It also thought: _it's Saturday, so what?_

"I made breakfast."

The creature stirred. Then stilled, hunger a laughable foe against his cultured and philosophical appreciation of surreal laziness.

"There's bacon."

Well, nothing beats bacon.

\(^.^)/

* * *

\(^.^)/

"Maybe your police education was a little bit lacking in the home ec department, Dad, but _FYI,_ bacon doesn't really go with milk_._" Stiles glared at the sheriff over a bowl of lucky charms, his wooden spoon absently swirling little whirlpools in the rapidly discolouring milk.

"If I need to eat healthy, you eat healthy too." Mr. Stilinski shrugged unapologetically, rinsing off his own bowl.

Stiles angrily shoveled a spoonful of charms into his mouth, his cheeks puffing out with cereal as he spluttered, "Oh, you're so smug. See if I'll fall for it again the next time the sheriff cries bacon."

Mr. Stilinski shot Stiles a skeptical look. "Do you _really_ want to risk it?"

Sometimes Stiles wishes that fathers came with return policies.

"Anyway, I'm going to work," Mr. Stilinski grunted as he reached for his coat. "I won't be home till dinner, so just stay out of trouble, okay? And I don't want to catch you wandering around the woods or kidnapping people again. I just don't think that they'd care to reinstate the same sheriff twice."

Stiles stared intently at a slowly sinking marshmallow, desperately trying to ignore the familiar twinge of guilt squirming in his chest. _  
_

The sheriff was about to leave when he turns around hesitantly. "And Stiles?"

Stiles looked up, his eyes quizzical.

"I love you."

"Oh my _God_. DAD!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The sheriff raised his palms before his chest in surrender. "Just . . . don't worry about what happened in the past, alright?"

For a brief, irrational moment, Stiles wondered if wearing his breakfast over his head like a hat will make the situation any less awkward.

"Look, I'm going right now. Remember, stay _out_ of trouble," the sheriff calls before the front door slams shut.

Having read somewhere that milk can be used to wash wounds, Stiles fervently gulped down the sugary slosh in the wild hopes that it will wash away the guilt. As he swallowed the last mouthful, he could feel a curious sensation building up in his chest. Is it actually working? This is unrea-

*burp*

Fanning away at the air, Stiles plonked the bowl into the sink, sighing contentedly as the warm water rushed over his hands, his eyes roaming aimlessly out of the window, not really taking in the view. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, its characteristic location in Beacon Hills, splashing the sleepy town in a deep blue pall._ A yawn_. His wandering eyes settled lazily on the sycamore in their backyard, its branches trembling under the weight of two incessantly chirping magpies, the pair hopping up and down along the wooden length to a cascade of golden leaves and spiralling seeds; landing haphazardly onto the roof of a black Chevy Camaro.

Drying his hands on the sides of his shirt, Stiles headed into the bathroom and squeezed some Crest onto his toothbrush. His dad's always been on his case for walking whilst brushing his teeth, but honestly, Stiles just doesn't see the harm. He grabbed a magazine with his free hand and plopped himself down before the counter, diligently brushing away as he read a very convincing article about how Christina Aguilera is secretly a Korean Spy and that Gangnam Style was ripped off an alien mating ritual.

_Wha—_

Stiles exploded, spraying the contents of his mouth like a peppergun, blanketing every reachable surface under a layer of frothy spittle and toothpaste. Notable victims include the coffeemaker, the waffle maker, the juice maker, and the now tragically headless Paula Abdul. Perhaps the real tragedy lay in the fact that her loss isn't really all that noticeable.

Stiles dashed to the kitchen window and sure enough, the Camaro was still out there on the street, casually lounging underneath their sycamore tree.

A thousand different thoughts and emotions raced through Stiles's mind like whizzing torpedoes. The first explosion was surprise and recollection, the second was the embarrassment of having been carried all the way home, fast asleep in the alpha's arms. The third impact was the splintering irritation at said alpha's nighttime visitation. The fourth, and last torpedo was a staggering jolt, a jolt of utter disbelief which crept to the back of his throat, clenching tightly and sealing it shut.

_What. The. Hell._

Wiping away the froth on his face with the back of his sleeve, Stiles threw open his backdoor, leaving the mess unattended and the toothpaste caking around Paula's existentially disputable head. It didn't take him 5 seconds before he was staring into his own reflection banging furiously on the driver's window.

Stiles turned as Derek emerged from behind the passenger door, bleary-eyed from sleep and bewilderment.

"What's going o—"

Stiles didn't wait for him to finish. "_What_ the _hell_ are you doing outside my_ house_? What are you trying to pull? Wha— . . .were you _sleeping?_ Oh my God, were you here all _night_?" Stiles flailed and gestured so much that he must have been an octopus in his previous life.

_"_Stiles, slow down. I can't hear you over all the talking."

"What. Are. You. Doing. Outside. My. House?" Stiles gritted through his teeth.

Derek scowled. "I came to pick you up. You seemed to be pretty into the idea last night."

"Then why do you look like you just woke up? Oh don't tell me that you didn't, because I _know_ that look, I see it in the mirror every morning." Stiles retorted.

"I fell asleep waiting. Your dad took longer than usu—" Derek bit his wayward tongue, cursing inwardly.

"Than _usual?_ You have got to be kidding me, _y__ou're_ Englebert_?_"

"What?"

Stiles ignored him, slapping a palm to his forehead as he tilted his head skywards. "Then this means that I'm useless girl. This has got to be a joke; or a really bad dream. No, it's a nightmare. I'm going to pinch myself really hard, and then I'm going wake up." Stiles grabbed a patch of skin underneath his elbow, then twisted.

"_Ow._"

Derek was still there, staring at Stiles in confusion, as solid and real as the pain throbbing through his arm.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." says Derek. "And who's Englebert?"

"Never _mind_ Englebert! You're stalking me. Or us! Is this some kind of werewolf thing? Do we _look_ like prey? Oh I swear, if you lay a finger on my d—"

"Stiles," said Derek, coolly cutting across Stiles's incessant babbling. "I bear no special interest in your father. I am aware of the time he goes to work because, as you obviously don't care to remember, I spent a couple of nights in his _jail_."

Some of the tension drained from Stiles's face. "Then why were you in the passenger seat? Did you doze off on the steering wheel and then, I don't know, sleepwolf out and leap into the backseat because you thought you smelled bacon?"

Derek fixes Stiles with a blank stare.

"I just really want some bacon right now, okay?"

Blankness.

"Well? Explain!"

"First off, Stiles, pipe down. The neighbours are beginning to stare." Sure enough, Mr. Jenkins from across the street was out on his lawn, the limply-held garden hose forming a puddle of mud around his feet. Derek inspected his nails with meticulous attention. "There is nothing to explain. I drove here this morning, waited, took a short nap in the back of my car and overslept."

Stiles took a deep breath, struggling to regain his composure. It was only when he inhaled another waft of that familiar musk that he realizes how ridiculously close Derek was. Stiles took a step back.

"I. . . I've got to go, gotta clean something up," Stiles muttered, shutting his eyes as he continued wistfully, "and then I'm going to take a long, steamy hot shower."

Stiles turned to leave, jumping as a strong hand rests on his shoulder.

"I'll help."

Stiles stared at Derek's intent face in unadulterated horror.

_Why's h—_

Derek paled as he realized how the teen may have misconstrued his offer.

"No! I meant that I wanted to clean with you. Wha—_No!_" Derek flustered as the look on Stiles's face curdled. "That's not what I meant! I meant cleaning up the _mess_, _with_ you. Not cleaning _y_—"

"Stay. Here. I'll be back in half an hour."

Derek hung his head like a defeated puppy; this was _not_ his week. "Okay."

\(T.T)/

* * *

\(T.T)/

The trip to 5th Street was an uncomfortable one. Stiles stared out of the window, resolutely away from Derek; the colourful blur of cars flying past his unseeing vision was doing nothing to lessen the guilt gnawing away relentlessly at his insides. What would his dad say if he discovered what his son was about to do, so flippantly jeopardizing his already teetering career, when the lingering echoes of the Jackson debacle have yet to fade? That look of disappointment from his dad, that look _of having given up_ had ground his heart to a fine dust, and Stiles feared that their relationship may not survive yet another blow.

"So. . . how's school?" said Derek awkwardly.

Stiles jerked out of his reverie to stare incredulously at the man next to him.

"What are you, a soccer mom?"

"I just want to have a conversation."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "_You_ want to _chit-chat_? I'm sorry, but you just don't strike me as the chatty kind, you know? And you can't really blame me because anything that comes out of that mouth of yours that isn't an incomprehensible growl is some trite epithet about how much you want to rip out my throat. Maybe you don't know this, but we humans generally don't sit around gossiping about our private lives or the latest fish prices with the people who want to murder them. Also, _FYI_, it's ridiculous th—"

"Good," said Derek with a grin, his eyes not leaving the road.

Stiles shot him a glare. "What?"

"Just keep talking. It's weird when you're quiet."

Stiles didn't really know what to say to that. Fortunately, he didn't have to, the car slowing to a halt as Derek pulled it to the side of the road.

"The alpha pack is just around that bend over there," Derek said, gesturing to a corner about fifty yards down the pavement. "The pl—"

"Is called Beacon Hotel." Stiles interrupted irritably. "I'm not an idiot. I _live_ here."

"Just don't want you to get lost again."

Stiles glared at the alpha, who, for a former felon, has a most unsettlingly innocent smile.

"Whatever. It's not like I'm ever actually in danger of getting lost anyway, because if you haven't noticed, _I_ have a creepy _stalker._" Stiles turned to punctuate that last word with a slam of the door.

"Stiles, wait!'

Stiles rolled his eyes, leaning on the door for support. "What now?"

A pause.

"I—Just. . . be careful." Derek said at last, a strange look twisting his face.

"I'm always careful," Stiles grinned.

The door slammed shut. And all was silent.

Derek straightened, his arms falling loosely to his sides; then, very, _very_ carefully, he banged his head into the steering wheel.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) So my 11 lovely followers (and my favourite couple of favouriters) may have noticed the change in tense. My sincerest apologies, but I've realized that this comes far more naturally to me. I shall have to recondition the first chapter in the future.

2) I do not actively think of ways to torture Derek. It just happens.

3) I do not hate Paula or Twilight! It's Stiles. Flame _him_!

4) Perhaps I've come on a bit too strong in the last chapter, because I ultimately didn't get a single review; so I'm changing tactics.

5) People who follow me are awesome. People who favourite are my favourites. Also, **REVIEW OR DIE. . .** *please?*


	3. Whales Belong In The Aquarium

_CHAPTER 3: Whales Belong In The Aquarium_

* * *

_CHAPTER 3: Whales Belong In The Aquarium_

*_HONK*_

Startled, Stiles whipped around, only to stare in confusion at the Camaro driving hurriedly away._ Huh._ Weird.

Shrugging, he shuffled along, casually taking note of the morning's progress into an uncharacteristic light and warmth. It was usually a dreary little town here, home to a soporific morass of frumpy people and their frumpy activities. And yet, as he approached the bend, Stiles had no choice but to marvel at how much difference a little golden sun can make, throwing the place out of its lazy slumber like a harsh slap of ammonia.

The stores were wafting out dozens of different scents, the plurality not so much a noxious, odoriferous mess but a delightful aroma, the flowery fragrance from the florist's and the delightful smell of newly-baked bread blending together deliciously with the ambrosial bliss that is roast chicken and smoked peppers; served, with a curious but delectable hint of applewood and hickory from the furniture shop across the street.

The people seemed more alive and colourful as well, talking animatedly as they hustled down the streets, the hubbub peppered with the occasional bark of laughter or squeal of delight. The atmosphere was infectious. Invigorated, Stiles propelled himself forward with newfound confidence, which was good because there was never such a thing as too much chutzpah when you're about to. . . to. . .

_Wow._

Stepping through the ornately carved threshold to a blast of warm air, Stiles found it incredible that he, having lived in Beacon Hills for his entire life, had never been acquainted with the opulence that is Beacon Hotel.

The lobby was enormous, a cavernous atrium nearly as high as the 7-story building itself, and yet yonder ceiling was blanketed with an entire host of modern art and intricate chandeliers, which hung low enough to brush affectionately against the quivering tips of yearning palm trees. The atrium floor was covered in lush blankets and modern furniture so chic that they must have been ordered straight out of sofa-Vogue, dotted here and there with serenely gushing fountains and towering statues. It should have looked an utter mess, really, but someone must be _really_ good at decor because it all looked fucking grand instead; in fact, the only visible mess here was that bellboy's slightly askew hat. He'll probably get fired later.

Stiles stared intently at a pair of angel statues, suspended gracefully in midair as though in an upwards, spiralling flight. Then he realized that perhaps ogling everything like a wide-eyed doe wasn't exactly bolstering his credibility, and also, his neck was beginning to hurt like mad from under the strain; so he lowered his head.

A polite face was staring intently into his.

"AH! . . .Ah, hello."

"How may I help you, sir?" came the woman's voice, cool and clear, and yet oddly evocative of elevators and subway announcements. Stiles's eyes drifted downwards, landing fleetingly on the silver tag fastened to her blouse. Sarah.

"I am here to visit a friend, actually; a Miss Anita Scherzinger?" For the life of him, Stiles could not understand his choice in using a British accent. He also could not explain the sudden urge to fiddle with his collar and say: "Double-O-Seven, Secret Service."

"Do you know her room number?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Could you please call her?"

"Regrettably enough, I do not have Miss Anita's number, nor her email for that matter. It's been years since I last saw her, you see, and I have only recently found out about her most fortuitous return."

Sarah frowned. "How did you get wind of her return, then?"

"She calle—err. . . it was a big sort of wind?" Stiles trailed off lamely.

The concierge's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "My apologies, sir, but we are unable to disclose any information which infringes the privacy of our customers."

"But I came yesterday, and another concierge took me to her room!" Stiles was flailing now, his Bond impersonation long forgotten.

Sarah pursed her lips. "That is unlikely. Which employee was it?"

"Well, he was tall, built, brooding, and he had dark hair and a stubble. He was also certainly a lot nicer than _you_," said Stiles. (Author's note: Stiles, are you _listening_ to yourself?)

"That will be Nathan, the newcomer. I shall have a word with him."

Crap. Stiles didn't really want to get anyone into trouble; the description was just a random collection of stupid adjectives which first came to mind. (Author's note: I wonder where from. . .)

The woman continued disdainfully. "Your statement, however, is inconsistent with your story. I should think that any person with even the most limited of observational insight would have been able to remember a simple 3-digit room number. On the other hand, I should also think that any person with even the most limited of observational foresight _and_ _decency_ would have asked for the number of a long lost friend."

Stiles would have been insulted if he weren't so nervous; and he'd been nervous for quite some time now, actually.

"Do you ever worry about getting crushed when you're working here?"

Sarah stared at him blankly.

Stiles rushed, "I mean, look at those two angels up there. What if one day, the wire meshing snapped and they both landed on your head? Even if it doesn't fall _directly_ on your head, what if the impact were so great, its shattered pieces fly everywhere like sharpnel? What if you get a concussion from getting hit in the back of the head by an angelic foot? Does the workplace insurance cover that? And if you go into a coma, does your boss get to pull the plug?"

Both heads turned up to stare, mesmerized, at the stone angels floating menacingly overhead.

Sarah pulled out her cellphone and began tapping away furiously. Uh oh.

"Look, I'll leave, just don't call secur—whoah!" Stiles yelped as the woman yanked the front of his shirt in a death grip.

"Come with me."

"Wait, what?" Stiles floundered, her unnatural strength propelling him forward.

_Towards the glass elevators._

The elevator buttons were of your typical "up" and "down" configuration, the pair symbolized with semiotic triangles in reflective rotations. From first glance, the flat buttons made it obvious to Stiles that they were probably sensitive enough to require nothing more than a light, gentle touch. There was nothing light nor gentle, however, about the way the concierge broke her nail as she plunged it furiously into the chrome.

Stiles's mouth gaped open in tune with the elevator doors.

"Get in," Sarah said as she walked hurriedly inside.

It took Stiles a moment's hesitation before he followed suit, his senses dulled by surreal, dreamlike disbelief. And like most dreams, spatial travel took little to no time at all, because Stiles swore that it was hardly a few seconds before he was standing before a penthouse door, 1010 engraved in golden wreaths. _  
_

_Do not disturb._

"Miss Scherzinger should be inside," the concierge said.

Stiles waited patiently for the concierge to leave. She didn't.

"Shall I ring the doorbell for you?"

Stiles coughed politely. "Err. . . thanks a lot, but I can take it from here."

"Ah, that is fine, I suppose. Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you."

"Alright then."

Stiles waited. She still doesn't budge. _Right._

"What are you still doing here?"

"I. . . I would like to verify that you were telling the truth. Should Miss Scherzinger declare that you're not acquainted with her, I shall have to be here to escort you to the exit."

Stiles couldn't really see a way out of this so, trembling slightly, he rang the doorbell.

_Silence._

Phew, he hates to admit this, but he's almost relieved tha—

The double doors swung open, held wide apart by a pair of slender bronze arms; then Stiles rested his eyes upon the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Her ebony curls crashed like cascading waterfalls upon her delicate, toned shoulders, framing a face so . . . so _perfect _that it's like a work of art stolen from the gallery of heaven itself, then some tool decided that it wasn't perfect enough, so he _airbrushed _it.

The alpha's gorgeous almond eyes landed fixedly on Stiles, causing his heart to leap violently into his throat.

"My apologies for the disturbance, Miss Scherzinger, but this young man here claims to be an old friend of yours. Could you please verify this?" asked Sarah. Stiles felt relief surge through him as Anita switched her attention to the concierge.

Such respite was tragically short-lived, however, when the Indian goddess swiftly returned to pin him under questioning, penetrative eyes; and Stiles swears that, for one fleeting instant, they were staring all the way through the very windows of his soul.

Anita's brow crinkled into a barely noticeable frown.

_She's not going to go with it, _Stiles thought in a panic. _Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh cra—_

"Oh my God, Ted! It's been so long since I last saw you. How did you find out that I was in town?" cried Anita in joyful disbelief, her arms abandoning their hold on the doors to pull him into a tight hug. _Mm. . . c__innamon._

The concierge was rooted to her spot, surprise etched across her face. _Take that,_ Stiles thought, _told you she's a friend._ Except she's not, really. More like a complete stranger he'd never even met before; also, she's the bloodthirsty alpha of the alpha pack, who could probably break every single bone in his body with one light squeeze.

Stiles was suddenly extraordinarily uncomfortable in her embrace.

"Thank you so much for bringing him here. Come on in, Teddy, we've got _soo much_ to catch up on." And before Stiles even knew what was happening, he's being pulled forward, the doors behind him slamming pointedly in the concierge's disheartened face.

-(O.O)"/

* * *

-(O.O)"/

The first thing that captured Stiles's attention is the private swimming pool out on the balcony; the next was the realization that the place is a chrome white and incidentally, twice the size of his house; and the third was the collection of alphas draped languidly over colorful sofas, tearing their gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling plasma screen to stare at him like. . . like lunch has arrived.

*Gulp*

"Now, could you _please_ tell me what all that was about?" came the gorgeous British vowels. How befitting of someone so beautiful and breathtaking and drop-dead gor-

Stiles was going to die today, he's _sure_ of it.

"Well?" Anita prompted, tapping her fingers impatiently against her elbow.

Stiles struggled to regain the ability to speak, which was demonstrably more strenuous an effort than hiking through the anticyclonic storms of Jupiter, an endeavour complicated considerably by the fact that Jupiter doesn't have a solid surface.

"I. . . I want to join your pack," Stiles finally said in a rush; half-convinced that he was about to be savagely torn from limb to limb by a pack of ravenous wolves.

Anita just stared at him blankly; the tension in the room melting away as the other alphas returned their attention to the telly.

Right. Awkward. Did he get the wrong room? Are there two Anita Scherzingers? No, no; it's not possible for two angels so wonderful to exist together at the same tim-

"No," said Anita.

Stiles wasn't quite sure if they were on the same wavelength here. For all he knew, she could be talking about party packs. "No. . .?"

"No, you can't join our pack," Anita said kindly; there was an eruption of laughter from the alphas (or humans). Stiles turned around, just in time to see a Jonas Brother getting conked in the head by a high-definition coconut.

"And by pack we mean a pack of. . ."

"A pack of werewolves. Alpha werewolves, to be precise."

Gazing into the alpha's apologetic face, Stiles realizes in a daze that this really wasn't the way he expected things to go at all. None of his bones have been broken, his skin was still intact, he still has all four limbs. . . Really, he ought to have been slammed into the floor by now, or at _least_ been sent cowering under a slew of violent interrogations and mortal threats.

Guess Derek's just a special case of sourwolf.

"Why not? If it's because I'm human, you can just give me the bite!" Stiles mimed clamping his teeth around an arm. "Well, not _this_ arm, I think the scar would look cooler around my left arm, because you know, angles, aperture, lighting and all that. Is there a code for bite marks, like how an earring on the left lobe means someone's gay? Does that make me gay? Because I had this weirdest dream the other night about my chemistry teach—"

"What's your name?" Anita interrupted, somehow looking slightly less sweet. Is this actually her version of being irritated? Stiles felt sick to the stomach for actually managing to irk someone so lovely and wonderful.

"It's Stiles," he answered, diminished.

"Stiles, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but werewolves don't retain scars," Anita said, her tone curious. "It puzzles me how a human could not know about a werewolf's healing faculties, when he knows about the alpha pack—" She paused, as though struck by a sudden thought.

Stiles thinks she's the most beautiful thing to ever walk the earth; but she's pretty slow for an alpha.

Which was ironic because within the blink of an eye, he was being slammed back against the doors, her deceptively delicate fist lifting him up by the scruff of his shirt.

"How did you find us?" she gnashed, her eyes gleaming a deep shade of purple. Stiles gulped. "You're a human, you could _never_ have caught our scent. Someone must have told you how to track us. A werewolf." She sniffs his neck.

"Whoa. . . Easy, tigress. Or wolfress. Or wolveress? What's the exact ter—"

"Hale," she snarled. At that revelation, the alphas around the tv turned to stare, their eyes gleaming menacingly in colours of every shade and hue. Uh oh.

Stiles completely forgot about Derek's scent. Guess he's pretty slow himself.

_Just go with it._

\(O-O)!/

* * *

\(O-O)!/

Yellow shifted to red with a languid smugness, and the Camaro slowed to a halt before the intersection; it was the tenth time it's passed through this stupid area, and it's also the tenth time it's been held up by that _accursed_ traffic light.

Derek scowled, the two rows of crescents on the steering wheel the only indication of the worry gnawing away restlessly inside. He dug his nails into the leather, deeper this time, perhaps ruining it permanently; but right now, he simply couldn't care less. Stiles was deep in the enemy lines, risking his life, whilst _he's_ here circling aimlessly around the hotel.

What if something happened to Stiles? He would never be able to forgive himself. _Damn it!_ He needs to be there, to keep an eye out for him, to make sure he's all right, but they can't risk jeopardizing the plan by having the alphas catch his scent. With a frustrated growl, Derek slammed a fist into the dashboard.

He had almost told Stiles about his—his. . . _feelings_. And now he wonders if it was the last chance he will ever have, and if Stiles will never kno—

_Stupid thoughts._ He'll be okay. He's always okay.

Derek inhaled a long, deep breath, the remnants of Stiles's scent soothing his nerves. It was a dreamy scent, mixed with the remnants of peach shampoo and the slightest hint of aftersh. . . sh. . . shit.

_FUCK._

There was a chorus of screeching tires and irate honking when a black Chevy Camaro stole into the intersection, the red light hollering angrily in its wake.

/(O.0)"\

* * *

/(O.0)"\

"Talk," Anita shook him by his collar, snarling.

Stiles thought absently that even though she was sporting those deadly canines, she was still really pretty.

"You know, this is actually how I expected the day to turn out. Thrown against the most immediate solid surface, interrogated on threats of violence, abject terror, the like."

Anita jerked him forward, then slammed him back into the doors. Hard. Stiles winced.

"We don't do threats of violence, young man, we get straight to it," she snarled.

Stiles blinked.

"You know, technically that's untrue because I'm pretty sure that _that_ counted as a threa—" Fangs and claws. "Okay, okay! Look, just calm down. Yes of course you smell Derek on me," Stiles paused, then declared tentatively, "it's only natural, after all, since I've been spending so much time with his pack."

There was a collective *chink* of claws popping out.

"Just hear me out before you eat me, okay?" Stiles whimpered, holding up his palms in placation.

"This had better be a convincing story, or I will rip you to ribbons."

"Right," Stiles said, the alpha's face far too close for comfort. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead, and he found himself concentrating on that instead. "I'm a member of Derek's pack. Well, sort of. I wanted the bite, but he kept rejecting me because apparently, he didn't think I could handle it, like I'd die or something." Stiles rolled his eyes. "He's always been like that, you know, Derek? You try to talk some sense with him and he just goes wolf on you and you can't really say anything, because it's really scary and you're afraid he might kill you. I've always told him that it wasn't fair for him to use hi-"

"Get to the point!"

"Right. Which is fine, because I don't want his bite anymore."

"And why is that?" Anita asked, her expression clinical.

"Because he's weak, and he's a failure of an alpha. I want to be strong, and a werewolf is strong. But I want to be more than just strong; I want to be stronger than anyone else, including the other werewolves; I want to be stronger than the weaklings like Derek." Stiles felt his eyes flare in determination and disdain.

"And that's why, after Derek mentioned that the alpha pack is here, I came looking for you," Stiles said. "I want. . . to become an alpha."

Wow, he's on a roll. He should really look into acting as a career, because he's pretty damn good at it; it's just like he's channeling Meryl Streep. Or Mitt Romney.

"That's an. . . intriguing story." Anita seemed utterly convinced. Yay Stiles!

"So can I have the bite now?"

"No."

Perhaps that "yay" was a tad premature. No yay for Stiles.

"Do I need to do something? What do I have to do? Because I will do _anything_ to get into your pack. I'll do the groceries, I'll do your laundry; hell, I'll even wash the dishes. Or do you alphas just eat stuff with your hands? Do you eat meat raw? I'm not so sure about that raw part because the last time I had sushi, I barfed into the soup bowl; then I covered it up and put it back on the conveyor belt and some old lady—whoah!" Stiles stumbled to the ground as Anita released his collar.

The alpha of alphas took a step back, the tension gone from her face; on the other hand, the rest of the pack probably need to take some of Stiles's Adderall, because most of them were out on the balcony playing water polo. "A very tempting offer, Stools (_it's Stiles_), but I'm afraid not."

"Why not?" Stiles whined.

"Because you're too power-hungry. Now, if you'll be so kind as to let yourself outside—"

"What? I thought you lot liked us power-hungry types because we're so easy to manipulate and corrupt!"

"We're alpha werewolves, not an episode of Buffy."

Stiles could not believe that this was happening. Damn his flawless acting. Damn Meryl Streep and Mitt Romney.

_Focus._

"Wait! Shouldn't you appreciate power more than anyone else? I mean, you're the alpha of an alpha pack, aren't you going to take advantage of this? A simple bite from you will give your pack another loyal member, and that in turn will make you stronger as wel—"

"Steels, you ne—I'm sorry, _Stiles._ Forgive me, but it _is_ a rather unusual name; I want to give you a piece of advice." Anita paused, frowning in concentration, as though summoning all the wisdom of her alpha ways. Stiles's eyes widened in anticipation.

"With great power comes great responsibility."

Two faces, one solemn, one incredulous, stared intently at one another.

"But that's from _Spiderman_!"

Anita looked genuinely surprised. "Is it really? I honestly can't quite remember, but I do recall it having struck me as deeply profound. Regardless of its origins, it retains the essence of the advice I'm imparting to you. Power requires discipline and regulation, for it is nothing without control. After all, power is only as strong as those who wield it, and those who crave power for the sake of power itself are the most powerless of us all. Remember that, and you will truly be strong," she said sagely.

This is ridiculous. Stiles doesn't even really _want_ to become a werewolf. Maybe he'll just tape this Spiderman lesson and give it to Derek.

"_Okay_, so the _real_ issue here isn't that I yearn for power, but your assumption that I will have no control over it, am I right?"

Anita frowned, deep in thought, and Stiles thought that it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen.

What was _wrong_ with him?

Anita laced her fingers together. "I suppose that there is some startlingly subtle truth to that."

"Then let me _prove_ to you that I have the control and means to harness the power of an alpha. Give me a mission, or a job, or a test; _anything_ that you think will prove my control and loyalty to you." Stiles's voice was held by uncharacteristic resolve, and he could see the interest slowly stirring in the alpha's eyes.

"Now _there's_ a thought. . ."

r(0-0)"

* * *

r(0-0)"

The glass doors flew open as an anxious man dashed hurriedly into the lobby, his panicking eyes wild and everywhere, scarcely taking in the the lavish extravagance so resplendent in the vast atrium.

_He can't find Stiles's scent._

No, _no_! The fucking place had just been cleaned, the air heavy with the suffocating haze of soapy detergent. Derek's eyes landed frantically on the alcove of elevators in the far right. No, there are _too many_ floors, he'll never find him in time. He needs to find someone who's seen the idiot before; one of those butler-people, perhaps, or a bellboy. It was only then when Derek noticed how many hotel staff there were, sprawling everywhere in a flowing mosaic of red and gold. _Which one?_

A woman's bloodcurdling scream pierced through his thoughts.

"I won't go out there, you can't make me!"

The concierge was clinging on to half an elevator door, slapping away hysterically at the outstretched arms of two concerned colleagues. She screamed some more, her words too overwrought by panic and delirium to make any sense, though Derek managed to catch a few choice expletives and jumbled epithets about how "_whales belong in the aquarium, not the fucking ceiling!_". The elevator's other metal door was trying desperately to close, but to no avail; bouncing off sorrowfully everytime it jammed into the woman's tremulous arse.

Derek didn't know what the hell was going on, but something about it just _screamed_ "Stiles was here."_**  
**_

He pushed past the two uniformed butler-people, not hearing their exclamations of surprise and irritation. The concierge, _Sarah_, looked up from her door, bewilderment etched across her tear-stained face. "Wha-"

"A teenager, short brown hair, tea-green eyes, flails when he talks, cute as a button - do you know where he went?"

"Teddy?"

Derek didn't know much about stuffed animals, and he was also fairly certain that this woman was insane - but he could see the recognition dawning in her eyes. That, and the traces of Stiles's scent left on her hand were enough for him to tear her from the elevator door and push her inside. Her butler-people friends cried in protest, but Derek had ears for no one but the dazed, if oddly relieved figure before him.

"Where did he go?" He asked again, impatience sending him dangerously close to the edge. Sarah cowered in fear.

"1010—" she whimpered, and Derek struck the button like lightning. "—Tenth floor. Met long lost Indian friend who has big wind."

That's it; this woman is officially _cuckoo_.

Derek glared impatiently at the digital screen, silently roaring at 3 to get a fucking move on and turn into 4 already. Damn stupid hotels and their glass elevators. He was in no mood to admire the dolphin statuettes swimming playfully in thin air, nor does he appreciate how the replica of Saturn and its moons brushed ever so slightly against the elevator, jiggling the rest of the planets into orbit. He glances back at the screen. _5._

_Hurry up!_

"Not the angels. Fucking angels. I should have went into insurance like Kelly. Fuck the angels."

Derek whipped around to tell the concierge to shut up, when something caught his eye.

The neighbouring elevator was carrying a janitor, his trolley of cleaning supplies and dirty mops taking up most of the elevator's space. In fact, there was so little room that its only other occupant was squished up against the side, his face pressed up against the glass like a trapped gold fish.

Stiles's eyes widened in disbelief when he saw Derek, his pupils tracing the alpha's progress upwards even as his own elevator moved ever so slowly away.

"Fucking angels," came Sarah's weak voice.

_Indeed._

There was a loud crash as Derek banged his head into the elevator doors.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) 22 follows. 9 Favourites. 4 reviews. Well, that's certainly an improvement. Many thanks for your support (_especially_ you reviewers and favouriters, many hugs for you!)

2) About the hotel. I went to Singapore's Marina Bay Sands once, and the amount of art and class there was just mindblowing (7 stars!). You should definitely google some images. (I had a Japanese concierge friend who worked there, whose name is, believe it or not, Marina! She's also the most amazing person ever, but I digress.)

3) More apologies incoming. I know it's all a little bit crackish; sorry, but I rather like it this way. I hate depressing stuff, and you may be glad to know that while Sarah never overcomes her anxiety and paranoia; she eventually quits her job, goes into insurance, and curiously enough loves it a lot more than the service industry.

4) Be patient, Sterek _will_ come!

5) Fav and review, and I will love you! (You are now hypnotized by this rhyme)


	4. Cowgirls Don't Cry

_CHAPTER 4: Cowgirls Don't Cry_

* * *

_CHAPTER 4: Cowgirls Don't Cry_

The noon sun hung steadily overhead like a giant spotlight, blasting the clouds into wispy wraiths with a brutal, ruthless pugnacity which would have earned it plaudits from professional wrestlers; and yet the light which illuminated the usually dreary park was shockingly gentle, like the soft touch of a baby's caress. Such was the charm of the autumn sun, where the mirthful light is unmolested by the company of sweltering, oppressive heat, and the people may actually enjoy the day without dabbing at their foreheads with towels or handkerchiefs every five seconds.

A bright red frisbee soared through the air, the Dora the Explorer cartoon on its surface a dizzying blur. The frisbee's path was constant, its flight unfaltering—and yet one could see the slight, _so very slight _wobble in its edge, as though it strived to be more, to fly as freely and gracefully as the bluebirds singing like a chorus angels above.

An outstretched hand, a laugh, and the children sent it soaring once again, over their cheering faces, over the apple trees; and over the azure lake sparkling like an incandescent sapphire—defiantly sending its own rays of magnificent blue fire back at the sun, challenging its supremacy, its _sovereignty_ over everything touched by its light.

And in the pond was a tree.

A single maple leaf, hastily painted with careless strokes of red and gold, broke away from its ripened tether under a puff of wind. It trailed slowly downwards, its path uncertain, before finally landing with a decisive ripple, shattering the tree into a million shambolic fragments of molten sapphire glass.

Stiles was leaning back against the gnarled trunk of an old maple, his arms folded across his chest, bracing himself against the gusts of chill autumn wind sending the golden-red stars swirling capriciously about his feet. His eyes were staring determinedly away into the distance, his shoulders rigid in stoic insouciance; a baffling paradox which unsettled the alpha still getting out of the car.

_Here we go._

Derek slammed the car door, his discomfort manifest proportional to the force applied and decibels amplified; a discomfort not lessened by the eyes burning into his, nor by the heart-stopping realization that he found said eyes, despite the obviously seething anger—unbearably attractive.

"Really, Derek? What kind of impetus, what kind of phantom, could have _possessed_ you to go there." Stiles yelled, the anger simmering throughout the ride finally bubbling to the surface in a heated, breathless frenzy. "They're going to catch your scent, and they're going to realize this was all a _fucking_ hoax, and then they're going to _come_ for us and my dad will lose his _job_. Is that what you want? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you _crazy_? Are you an _idiot_? Were you born without any _sense_ at all? "

Each word was a dizzying punch, pounding Derek deeper, and deeper into the earth; leaving him dazed and light-headed and scant for breath. He would have ripped out the throat of anyone else who dared to douse him in such vitriol—but this wasn't anyone else, this was _Stiles;_ this was _Stiles_ who was angry with him, this was _Stiles_ whom he has disappointed, this was _Stiles_ who was glaring at him like he was the last thing on Earth that he wanted to see; and all Derek could think about right now was how long it would take for the earth to finally, _finally_ swallow him up, where he can hide away from this caustic diatribe in the soil's cold, infinite blackness, perhaps forever.

This, of course, was how Derek felt, and what he feels—be it the overwhelming urge to curl into a fetal position and suck diligently on his thumb—is derisively irrelevant. An actor does not allow personal grievances leeway to interfere with good acting—and Derek, contrary to Stiles's most unflattering assumptions, is a _very_ good actor.

Derek growled, a primal, guttural sound jarring in stark contrast with the whimper within. "They won't catch my scent, the whole place is scrubbed every two minutes."

Stiles was supremely unimpressed.

"Oh please, Derek, get your head out of your ass. You never even touched me and it took Anita about five _seconds_ to make out your scent. Where were you when the Wizard was handing out brains—fucking around with Dorothy? . . .Or with _Toto_? Tell me, Derek, did you do Toto doggy style, or did Toto do _you_ doggy style?" Stiles's voice was like a machine-gun.

Derek felt his hurt swiftly molt to anger. He made a mistake, fine. But does Stiles have to be such a fucking jerk?

"It doesn't matter," Derek gritted through his teeth, struggling to suppress his anger; a woman had stopped mid-jog to stare curiously at Stiles's acidic tirade. Derek glared at her—and shrugging, she left in no apparent hurry, jogging down the path to the steady rhythm of Gangnam Style.

"It doesn't matter? Are you fucking ki—"

"It doesn't matter," Derek repeated irritably, then continued before the outraged teen could interrupt, "because Sarah already placed out-of-order signs in front of every elevator on the tenth floor—then she told the team to scrub the lobby and all the elevators. In exchange, I carried her out of the building."

"You carried her out? Why would she want that?" Stiles asked in disbelief, feeling an unpleasant twinge in his stomach at the thought of the woman huddled safely in Derek's arms. Then his face twisted in horror. "Did you set a fire? Of my God, you set a _fire?_ You're going to kill everyone just because the alphas are staying there? I_ knew_ I heard a fire engine, you son o—"

"Stiles, shut up!" Derek snapped, and the teen complies, his lips sealing shut like a ziplock bag. "I did _not_ set a fire. There wouldn't have been much point in removing all traces of my scent if I was just going to burn the whole place down anyway. And believe it or not, it _does_ remove my scent."

"Arson?" Stiles asked in confusion.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Sanitation. It's why I had to find Sarah in the first place. I couldn't find your scent through all the soap."

Stiles's breathing was growing more regular, his heartbeat normalizing to a steadier rhythm; and Derek relaxed.

"You're a hundred percent sure?"

Derek sighed. "Yes, Stiles."

Stiles wrapped his arms around his chest to brace against another cold gust of wind; the maple branches waving lazy farewells in its wake, showering a soft flutter of crimson leaves upon the two awkward figures sheltered below.

"So. . . why did you go back?" Stiles finally asked, his tone tentative.

The park was suddenly awfully quiet, the children across the lake nowhere to be seen.

Derek wasn't quite sure what to say."I thought that there might have been some. . . issues."

Stiles curled his bottom lip; then puffed, sending a leaf toppling off his head. "Issues? Why would you think that? Because you thought I'd screw up? I find your lack of faith in me to be really insulting, Derek. And by the way, there _were_ issues. Are you psychic?" Stiles spread his arms, then continued sarcastically. "Because congratulations, you've finally got your first sense!"

Perhaps it was the crumbling bark, or Stiles's excessive flailing, or both; because before he even knows what was happening, he was sliding off the trunk and falling backwards into the lake. As he braced himself for the icy shock, Stiles wondered fleetingly if he's finally managed to annoy even mother nature herself.

_Well, Crap._

A strong arm wrapped itself around his waist, spinning him swiftly away from the water; the world around him a dizzying panorama. Stiles stared up in a daze, struggling to register the rapid chain of events; to no avail, Derek's eyes far too distracting a phenomenon for any form of coherent thought.

"Because I was worried," Derek answered quietly.

It was almost as though time had slowed down to a breathless halt, the two figures by the lake frozen together deathly still; the only sign of life the golden leaves cascading around them in silent, ghostly whispers.

Derek felt his heart leap to his throat; he coughed, apprehension flashing through his eyes. _It's now or never_. "Stiles, I need to tell—"

It was finally here; soaring so gloriously, so _magnificently_ through the hastily parting wind, towards transcendence, towards impossible _ecstasy._ To soar and strive to reach the clouds, the heavens, the stars; and mayhap the wondrous dreams which lie infinitely beyond! Fly! Fly for the colours of America! Fly like the blue falcon, fly like the white albatross, fly like the red Angry Bird!

There was a crimson blur; Derek's pupils crossing together for a split-second before Dora the Explorer hits him flat in the face. And it stuck there, its now masked victim firing off a string of violent curses as he stumbles blindly backwards, a blasphemy against the happily smiling little Latina girl so affectionately tacked on to his face.

Stiles yelped in surprise as the hands beneath him vanished; then he yelped again, this time in pain, crashing unceremoniously to the ground.

A little blonde head poked from around behind an old oak.

"Hello, mister!" She beamed happily at Stiles, who was still wincing from his fall. "Did you see our frish-bee? It—"

The girl stopped abruptly, her eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of the dazed man slumped against his car.

"Dora is alive!" She squealed in excitement. "Smithie! Amanda! Come quick, I found Dora!"

Stiles stared bewilderedly at the three children before him, their wide eyes starry with wonder. He turned around, following their line of sight in confusion; then burst out laughing.

"Dora! Why are you so tall? Did you growh up?" asked the little boy, who was probably Smithie; though with the way gender-specific names are being thrown around these days, it was entirely plausible that he's Amanda.

"Dora! Dora! Where's Boots? Are you on an adventh-ture? Is that why you are wearing a black jah-cket?"

"Dora's not on an adventure, Amanda, she doesn't have Backpack. She'll get lost without Map," reasoned the first girl sagely.

"Maybe she is lost! Dora, did Swiper steal Backpack? We'll help you find it!" said Smithie, his sweet little face brave with determination, and Stiles barely stifled a giggle. He really ought to say something, but he'd rather not.

The children chattered in excitement as "Dora" straightened, his arms falling rigidly to his sides.

Amanda huffed. "That Swiper is such a meanie, alwayth stealing things from Dora."

"Yeah! Swiper always swipey Dora's things" nodded Smithie in agreement.

"Why are you alwayth so nice and sympathetic (huh, big word) to Swiper?" asked the blonde girl, oblivious to "Dora"'s clenching fists. "He's alwayth so mean to you, but youh always forgive him. Why are you so magh-nanimous? (Okay, seriously? The kid's _five._) Do youh like him? Why don't youh just tell him?"

All three curious, _adorable_ little faces turned to beam expectantly at the man with a frisbee on his face.

Stiles was giggling hysterically now; oh God, this is just fucking _gold_.

"Dora? Why are youh so quiet?" asked the blonde, unnamed girl, planting her hands on her hips bossily. "Mummy sayth it's really rude to ignore people when they're talking to you."

"Dora" remained dangerously silent.

"Helloooo, Dora? Why are youh so quiet!" No-Name cried, stomping to a halt before "Dora", a towering contrast which only emphasized how _tiny_ and _adorable_ she was.

"Dora, talk!" she whined, punctuating each word with a poke on Derek's thigh. "Dora, talk! . . .Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk!"

Her angry chant was interrupted by a rustling thud as Dora's face tumbled from its perch; the red frisbee spinning madly on the ground before slowing to a deathly halt by Derek's boots.

All three toddlers screamed in horrified unison. And, to be perfectly honest, Stiles felt like joining in.

Because that face behind the frisbee? Was _not_ a happy face.

"You _ate_ Dora's head!" screamed Amanda, her eyes bulging out of her head in unadulterated terror.

"Eeeek! Dora's dead! _Dora's dead!_" Smithie wailed.

No-name stared bewilderedly at Dora's face smiling happily next to Derek's feet, her eyes widening in recognition. "Hey, I found my frish-bee!"

There was a happy cheer as the toddlers cried "Hooray!"

Stiles thought idly that these kids were going to have a very hard time ahead of them in life.

No-Name bent over, her tiny little hand reaching for the frisbee; grasping empty air. She looked up with wide eyes, only to see the tall man carefully examining the toy, his face painfully expressionless.

"Mister. . . can we have our frish-bee back?" No-Name asked tentatively, her arms outstretched, straining for the frisbee.

Derek didn't seem to hear her, his attention reserved for nothing but the red. . . _thing_ in his hands.

"Mister. . .?"

"What is your name?" Derek smiled down at her, his face kind. The girl relaxed visibly.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have Stiles gaping incredulously at Derek, his mind completely blown.

"Elizabeth, but ehveryone calls me Elly," she answered.

"Well, Elly, you want your frisbee back, don't you?"

"Yesh! So can I have my frish-bee back now? We wants to play with it."

"What do you say when you want something, Elly?" Derek asked.

Elly's eyes widened in understanding. "Can I pwease have my frish-bee back, pwease?"

Derek looked at her kindly; and like lightning, snapped the thing in half.

He spread his palms, allowing the pieces to tumble mournfully into her hands. She looked up to gaze at the man's once again expressionless face, her mouth gaping open in a tiny little "o".

Elly burst into tears, her body racking with each tremulous sob.

Smithie was the first to speak, his voice trembling, "You broke our frish-bee!"

"You big fat meanie!" cried Amanda, stamping her feet, her own eyes beginning to grow puffy and red.

Derek snarled, causing all three children to burst into caterwauling tears.

"Derek, what is _wrong_ with you?" Stiles glared at him in anger. Derek scowls.

"They threw that abominable thing into my f—"

"They're kids, Derek, they're five year-old _kids_." Now it was Stiles's turn to scowl, and Derek felt his face falter; his wolf whimpering inside.

"B-But—"

"You just made these sweet little kids cry because of a _frisbee_? Really? A _frisbee_? What are you, Derek? A _kindergartner_?"

"But they—" Derek said hurriedly, the rest of the sentence drowned out by another piercing wail from Elly.

Stiles shook his head, then walked over to the girl, her shoulders trembling with each muffled little sob. She slowly looked up at the teen, who was smiling down at her reassuringly.

"Elly, don't cry. We'll buy you another frisbee, okay?" Stiles grinned in encouragement.

Elly sniffles. "No! My daddy gave me the frish-bee as a goodbye present before he went to Florida. I don't want another frish-bee. I want daddy's frish-bee." She looked down at the pieces lying morosely in her hands, then burst into tears.

Stiles shot Derek a menacing glare. The alpha raised his hands before his chest defensively, his bewildered face protesting: _how was I supposed to know?_

"Elly, when will your daddy come back? Maybe he can buy you another frisbee," Stiles said kindly.

She wiped her tear-stained face. "He's not coming back. He left Elly and mummy so he can live with Fucking Whore." Stiles blanched, but she continues on relentlessly. "I hate Fucking Whore, she stole daddy from me. I hate her!"

She glared at Derek. "Now big fat meanie broke daddy's frish-bee. I hate him too! I hate him I hate him I hate him I _hate_ _him_!" She cried, her tiny fists landing a series of ineffectual blows on Derek's thigh.

Derek chewed nervously on his bottom lip, not quite daring to meet Stiles's eyes.

_Maybe he could just sneak a pee—_

*gulp*

Stiles snarled. "Derek, _fix this._"

"What am I supposed to do? Staple it back together?"

Stiles fixed Derek with a cold stare. "If you don't do something, there are a couple of things of yours that _are_ getting stapled together."

Flustered, Derek knelt to the ground, his face leveling with the girl's. "Elly, I'm sorry I broke your frisbee. Could you please find it in your pretty little heart to forgive me?" he said, flashing a toothy grin.

His seductive charms obviously did not work on five year-olds, because Elly let out a terrified little squeak before scrambling back to hide behind her friends.

Derek was just a _teensy_ bit offended.

"Stiles, let's just go. We can buy a new frisbee for them at the toy store if you really want to."

"But I don't want a new frish-bee!" interrupted Elly. her eyes tearing up again. "I want daddy's frish-bee!"

"Give Elly back her daddy's frish-bee, you meanie!" cried Amanda.

Smithie joined in. "Yeah! My daddy says Jews are meanies! You must be a Jew!"

Derek stared at Smithie incredulously. Sighing, Stiles took over.

"Smithie, Jews are not meanies; remember that. Nevertheless, this man here," Stiles pointed at Derek, not bothering to look at him. "while not a Jew, is _definitely_ a meanie."

The children nodded fervently in agreement. "_Yes_, he is a meanie!" they chirped.

Derek rolled his eyes.

Stiles ignored him. "But Mister Meanie here is very very sorry, and he wants to apologize to all of you_—especially _Elly_—_for breaking your frisbee."

The children turned to stare at the ex-Dora, who nodded briefly in agreement.

"And he would _also _like to apologize for the emotional trauma his face has caused to Elly."

Derek rolled his eyes, but nodded nevertheless.

"So, to compensate for the all the awful things he's done, Mister Meanie will now give all of you _horsey rides_!" Stiles hoorayed.

Derek nodded. Then blanched.

_"What?"_

Stiles shrugged indifferently, ignoring Derek's look of pure terror as the cheering children crowded excitedly around his feet, tugging insistently at the hem of his shirt in a busy chatter.

"Stiles, I am _not_ giving these brats _horsey rides_," Derek hissed through his teeth.

It was like Stiles couldn't even hear him. He tapped away at something on his phone, set it on the ground, then settled down next to it; sending down a trickle of golden-red as his back nestled lazily against the warped maple bark.

Derek's eyes widened as the twangy chords of country music started wafting from the phone; a jarringly unapologetic rustic melody with complete disregard for the _ridiculousness_ of the situation. He glared at Stiles, who flashes him a quick grin before pulling his hood over his head—and started _snoozing_ away.

_Her daddy gave her, her first pony  
Then taught her to ride._

You have gotta be_ kidding me._

Sighing in defeated acceptance, Derek grabbed Elly by her collar and lifted her up onto his back, tucking her feet securely under his arms.

_She climbed high in that saddle  
Fell I don't know how many times  
Taught her a lesson that she learned  
Maybe a little too well._

He took a few awkward steps forward, crunching twigs and dry leaves underfoot. Little hands tightened fearfully around his neck, clinging on for dear life, the fall promising pain; something she already knew far too well for someone far too young. He felt a sniffle tremble against the back of his head, and he tentatively increased his pace.

_Cowgirls don't cry  
Ride, baby, ride  
Lessons of life are going to show you in time  
Soon enough you're gonna know why.  
_

Every step grew steadily more confident, more rapid; every new movement jostling the girl harder and harder in her seat. She didn't seem to care.

_Cowgirls don't cry_  
_Ride, baby, ride_  
_It's gonna hurt every now and then_  
_If you fall get back on again_  
_Cowgirls don't cry._

He was running now, the weight on their backs fading away into the violently rushing wind. The body pressed against his own trembled, but not from fear nor sadness—Elly was laughing happily away, the dangerous speed sending the wind flying through her hair, and a shivering thrill soaring through her bones. She alternated between screaming and laughing whenever Derek scaled a grassy knoll; leapt over a buttress root; ducked under a low-hanging branch; or veered so very dangerously close to the lake, threatening to send them both careening over the edge into the sparkling waters below.

Then, his eyes squinting in the sun, Derek realized that Elly's not the only one who was laughing and screaming so very _madly_ away.

_'cause Cowgirls don't cry  
Ride, baby, ride  
Lessons of life are goinna' show you in time  
Soon enough your gonna know why  
It's gonna hurt every now and then  
If you fall get back on again  
Cowgirls don't cry._

Stiles peeked lazily at the two crazy idiots from under his hood; and smothered a grin.

((-.o))

* * *

((-.o))

"So, you had fun."

Derek was lying on the ground, his chest heaving up and down with every ragged breath. Three smaller figures lay about him, giggling madly away, the adrenaline from the _madness_ not quite yet entirely faded. He blinked at the face staring down at him, a sardonic smile playing upon its lips.

"Y-yeah," Derek grinned stupidly.

Stiles blinked, then pursed his lips, as though distracted by something. He shook his head, then continued. "When you finally feel like getting your ass off the ground, which is hopefully before future generations judge our race based on the discovery of the fossilized butt-prints here—_but no rush_—I'll be waiting in the car."

"W-wait, I'm coming." Derek propped himself up with his hands.

"Mister Meanie, pwease don't go," Elly said, pouting.

"Yeah, Mister Meanie, stay!"

Smithie piped in. "We can throw glass boh-ttles at Jews!"

Stiles was pretty sure that he was going to see the kid's name on the news someday.

Derek smoothed down his jacket, and smiled kindly at the three hopeful little faces. "Sorry guys, but I can't play anymore today. I'll be back again, I promise."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "_If_ the cops don't lock you up for suspected paedophilia."

Derek ignored that. He turned to leave, then stopped; looking down to see Elly hugging his jean-clad leg like blonde limpet.

"Don't go! Pwease don't go!" she stared up at him, her rapidly tearing eyes threatening to spill hotly over her burning cheeks. She squeezed his leg even tighter. "I don't want you to leave Elly like daddy!"

Derek felt his heart clench.

"Elly, you'll be alright." Derek smiled. "You're a cowgirl, remember? You can do _anything_."

Elly sniffled as she rubbed her eye, but managed to force out a little smile. "Then are you a cowboy?"

Derek frowned a little, as though deep in thought.

"Yes, I'm a cowboy. And the next time we meet, I'll give my little cowgirl even more horsie rides, okay?"

The cowgirl blinked away a few tears, then nodded, her tear-stained face beaming happily.

"Okay."

Stiles was a bit unnerved by the exchange. "Elly, do you have a facebook account?"

Elly nodded. "Yes! Elly made one to see if Fucking Whore was ugly like mummy said, but there was only a picture of a man in a dress."

"Right. Well, what's your account name?" asked Stiles. Derek stared at him in confusion.

"Elly Lizzy Cooper."

"Okay, good. See you, Elly," Stiles said, then slammed the car door in her face.

Elly stared at Derek in confusion.

"Mister Meanie, your friend is very weird."

"Yeah. . . yeah. That he is," Derek agreed, a smile tugging at his lips.

There was a honk from the car, and after one last hug for Elly and effusive farewells for the other two, the Camaro drove slowly away; little hands waving them off cheerfully in the rear-view mirror.

Stiles clicked his tongue.

"Alright, Big Bird, I'm not really all that into vegan food, or whatever it is you weirdos eat; so it'll be nice if you'll just take the next turn out of Sesame Street and get me to Applebee's stat."

"Applebee's?"

"Yeah, it's two hours past lunch and I still haven't had a single bite. In fact, on several distinct occasions, I actually came very close to regurgitating my breakfast; a notable feat considering that it's probably residing somewhere in my lower intestines."

Derek sighed, but toggled the GPS anyway.

Satisfied, Stiles continued. "Then, over lunch—for which you will be of course be paying—we'll talk about the Gleipnir."

Derek turned around to stare at Stiles in surprise.

"What about the Gle—"

"TRUCK! TRUCK! GAS TANK! EYES ON THE ROAD YOU CRAZY WOLF!"

The tyres screeched a ghostly wail as the Camaro veered hastily to the side, narrowly avoiding a fiery death in 7000 gallons of explosive gas. The Camaro did, however, get a consolatory fiery middle finger from the truck driver.

Stiles exhaled sharply; it wasn't his last breath after all. For a moment there, he actually thought that he felt Death himself clasping his arm in a vicelike grip and—

Oh. _Oh_.

"Err. . . Derek? Why are you holding my hand?"

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) I've got 41 followers, 24 favourite and 14 reviews. Wow, thank you guys.

2) I'm super sorry for the slightly late chapter, but in the future, I shall try to update this story at least once per week.

3) Also, I get the feeling that this chapter was really subpar (was a bit rushed). I will brush it up next time.

4) Remember to review, even if you hate it!


	5. Revolting Kimchis

_CHAPTER 5: Revolting Kimchis_

* * *

_CHAPTER 5: Revolting Kimchis_

The restaurant was just as bustling and busy as ever, despite the fact that most of their customers have already left with lunch warming their bellies. Perhaps the semblance of activity was wholly derived from the group of frat boys in the corner booth, the waiters and waitresses rushing over every few seconds to politely ask—barely audible over the ruckus—for them to shut the fuck up; or at least, that's what Derek _thinks_ that they should say.

Derek was staring studiously at his menu—the warm lights splotching the page with puddles of bright yellow—and trying his very best to ignore the teen lounging so casually in the opposite end of the booth. Derek shook his head; _focus_. There are double-glazed baby back ribs, roasted garlic sirloin, sizzling bourbon street steak. . .

_He had withdrawn his hand like it was burnt, the fire singing his face in a red flush. Stiles was staring at him in disbelief, or disgust; he didn't linger long enough to be sure._

Stiles yawned, stretching back against his seat as he flipped a laminated page, his eyes scanning the items in lazy fashion. Derek peeped at him over an unrealistic photoshop of Parmesan Sirloin, hastily ducking back behind the menu as Stiles's eyes flicked suspiciously in his direction. Grilled jalapeno-lime shrimp, blackened tilapia, lemon shrimp fettucine. . .

_He took a wrong turn for the third time in a row, far too distracted to think straight—and he was pretty sure that the cool female voice from the GPS had just called him a dumbass. Stiles's eyes were burning into the side of his face, sending a shiver down his spine—but he kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Derek gasped, his collar suddenly far too warm; and far too tight, constricting his throat._

"So, what are you getting?"

Derek's head jerked upwards. "Green Bean Crispers!"

The look that Stiles gave him was one of—quite frankly—disgust.

"_Green Bean Crispers?_" Stiles repeated slowly, his face incredulous.

To be perfectly honest, Derek was distracted; he would have read out "Green Bean Crispers" even if Stiles had asked him about the state of political turmoil in southern Thailand.

"Y-yeah. . . But maybe I'll just get a—"

A shadow loomed over the table.

"Hi, I'm Christy, and welcome to Applebee's! I'll be your waitress for today, so may I take your order please?" The girl's voice was cheerful and upbeat, a testament to the dimpling smile plastered across her face, crinkling the skin underneath her baby blue eyes. Her blonde curls were like a silken waterfall of gold, crashing onto her shoulders in rolling waves; and brushing against the start of what Derek could see was a _very_ generous bosom.

_Bitch._

Stiles was gaping at her—at _them—_in barely concealed admiration. Derek grinded his teeth.

_Jerk._

"Hmm. . ." Stiles flicked a dismissive glance at the menu, then returned to face the woman, a charming smile playing upon his lips. "I'm not really sure. In fact, I've never even _been_ to an Applebee's my entire life." Stiles lied smoothly. "Anything you can recommend?"

There were a number of things that Derek could recommend; and most of them involved a hatchet.

Christy stood half akimbo, tapping her pen against her cheek in thoughtful consideration. "Well, most of our customers order the sizzling dishes for lunch, and they're delicious enough—but here's a secret; I know for a _fact_ that that our chef Mr. Aries makes a pretty mean burger, and even though he's normally in charge of seafood, I _could_ get him to make an exception if you want—since you're a new customer."

"Wow, pretty _and_ kind," Stiles grinned; Derek's right eyebrow gave an involuntary twitch.

_Hatchets. Machetes. Chainsaws. Grenades. Machine guns. Lasers. Torpedoes. Hydrogen bombs._

Christy blinked, then laughed. "Aww, you're sweet. Well, if you're going for the burger, there's the Philly burger, the Quesadilla burger, the Cowboy burger, the Bacon Cheddar Burger, the Bourbo—"

Stiles's eyes were shining like little stars as he interrupted. "The Bacon Cheddar Burger?"

"Yup," affirmed Christy, popping the "p". "It's basically a normal beef burger with lettuce and tomatoes, but it also comes with thick-cut strips of bacon crusted together in salty melted cheddar cheese."

"That. Definitely that," Stiles said in a dazed wonder.

"Alrighty," Christy said cheerfully, ticking away at something on her clipboard. She turned to smile at Derek. "What about you, sir? You've been really quiet, haven't you?"

Derek didn't smile back. "A Sizzl—"

"Oh, he'll have the Green Bean Crispers," interrupted Stiles helpfully.

Christy looked at Derek interestedly. "Oh, so you're vegetarian?"

Derek fixed her with a scornful scowl, far too scandalized for a coherent response.

"Don't mind him, he's in a bad mood."

"I am _not_ in a bad mood," said Derek calmly.

Which was true to some extent; it was rather hard to use imaginary weapons of mass destruction on Stiles when he was already a smouldering pile of blackened soot.

"Okay! One hot Bacon Cheddar Burger with a steaming side of fries," Christy pronounced with a smile, tapping her list with her pen. "And a healthy plate of yummy Green Bean Crispers; coming right up!"

"No! I don't want _Green Bean—" _Derek started derisively, but Christy doesn't hear him.

"Sir! Please put down that bottle of hot chili. It is _not_ applicable face lotion!" Christy exclaimed as she hurried over to the corner booth_—_which erupts into a chorus of raucous laughter. Derek felt an overwhelming urge to bang his head into the table.

_Later._ _He'll do it later._

Stiles pressed his index finger onto the menu, an axis absently rotating it on the table as he said, "so, the Gleipnir?"

"Why, and what do you want to know?" Derek asked, sobering.

"It's my task."

"What?"

"Anita wants me to make a Gleipnir, because apparently, 'it's a task no normal person is supposed to be able to do'. She says it requires self-control, concentration, discipline, and kindness—so it's obviously right up my alley." There was no hint of irony in Stiles's voice.

"You have to do this to join the pack?"

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Obviously; get your head out of your ass, Derek."

"Do you even know what a Gleipnir is?"

"Not really, no."

Derek sighed. "It's a kind of chain that was used to bind Fenrir, a monstrous wolf fathered by Loki in Norse mythology."

"What? Why would Anita want a Gleipnir?"

"How am_ I_ supposed to know?"

Stiles scratched his forehead. "Well, never mind that now. How do you make one?"

"I don't know."

Stiles crossed his arms, shooting Derek a withering look. "You're useless, you know that? _Useless._"

Derek scowled. "Why don't you just use that fancy phone of yours and search the fucking internet?"

Stiles stared at Derek blankly.

"I guess I hadn't thought of that," admitted Stiles, eliciting a scowl from the alpha. He pulled out his phone and tapped away on it for a spell; then stopped, his eyes widening in confusion.

"What is it?" Derek asked, his face curious.

"There's. . . nothing on Google." Stiles said slowly, his grip tightening on the slender cell. "The almighty Google hath fallen," he said in staggered awe, "what's going to happen next, fire-breathing dragons attack the capital? The kimchis rise up to revolt against their Korean oppressors? The vegans finally go mad and go on shooting sprees in food courts? Fire-breathing Korean kimchis attack the capital's food courts and the vegans save the world by eating them and are as such pardoned from their shooting sprees in the food courts outside the capi—"

"Stiles, stop!" Derek said sharply, interrupting the teen's breathless babble. "We'll just go to the library later, okay? It's how _I_ got by all these years."

Stiles blinked, his eyes refocusing—it was as though he was in a far away place, a labyrinth of endless corridors, the walls a constantly shifting phantasmagoria of wayward conjectures and vivid imagination—and he was now struggling to navigate through that colourful, distracting maze back to solid ground; and back to present reality.

"Yeah, we'll do that," he said finally.

There was a light plink as Christy set down the laden dishes between them.

"There you go." Christy smiled cheerfully. "Enjoy!"

Stiles ogled the platter, his mouth hanging open in a gormless leer—and Derek understood, perhaps far too well; his superhuman nose was already picking out titillatingly ambrosial scents which would have made any lesser man go mad with unbridled ecstasy.

Stiles didn't say anything as Christy left—words far too lengthy a barrier between him; and the _heaven_ beckoning so invitingly, so_ tantalizingly_ away—then he dove in; his jaws working slowly as he savoured the first taste of food he's had in nigh on ten hours—and boy, such food, _such glorious_ _food indeed_. The sesame-dusted buns were mellow and pillow-soft, melting away easily in his mouth, granting much-celebrated passage to beef so juicy, so flavourful, so _beautiful;_ that it was probably what it would taste like if someone had killed an angel and sent it through the meat-grinder—and the cheese bacon. Oh, the cheese bacon. There was no word that could sufficiently describe the magic that was the cheese bacon. Stiles wanted to build a shrine and just sing hymns to it all day, or dress it in a tuxedo and take it out to a romantic candlelit dinner—where they will talk and laugh and Stiles will woo it with a guitar over even _more_ wonderful burgers with this cheese bacon. Stiles moaned happily, the blissful sound of a person who has satisfied every heavenly want, every earthly desire; and has finally achieved the perennial state of nirvana.

Derek stared sadly at the pile of Green Bean Crispers laden before him. He took a little whiff, winced, then slowly nudged it away.

"Oh my God, I love this burger so much that I want to dress it in a tuxedo, take it out to a romantic candlelit dinner, and just talk and laugh and maybe woo it with a guitar over even more awesome burgers like this," Stiles said happily through a mouthful of aforesaid awesome burger. He paused, staring curiously at Derek's untouched plate. "Why aren't you eating?"

If there was a way to cause suffering to a pile of blackened soot, Derek would very much like to know how.

"I'm not hungry," Derek lied through his teeth, a lie challenged querulously by the low rumble from his errant stomach—the mournful whine of an organ that has tasted neither smidgen nor morsel of food save the roadside taco from last night; and even then, it was far too meagre a meal to sate the gas-guzzler appetite of an energetic alpha.

"Huh, that's a waste; but you're paying so. . ." Stiles shrugged indifferently. "Your loss."

He took another bite, the burger vanishing rapidly under his gluttonous attack—the brutal ravaging of a man who has not eaten for weeks. It therefore came as a surprise when Stiles set it down—perfectly half-eaten—his eyes alert.

"What?" asked Derek.

"I have to go pee. Be right back."

Derek rolled his eyes as the teen got up and left, very nearly knocking over a tray of soft drinks from a waiter's well-balanced hand as he squeezed past the corner booth. A yelp, a hastily muttered apology; and Stiles disappeared behind the door, the chromed cartoon of a monocled gentleman slowly swinging to a close.

Derek gave his lemon iced tea a half-hearted stir, the reality that he was going to go hungry today no longer met with dismay but with defeated acceptance. He glared at the abominable pile of fried vegetables in thinly-veiled disgust, its likeness to a mass of dismembered grasshoppers coated in congealed bile both nauseating and confusing; the appellation "Appetizer" an egregious misnomer.

Sighing, Derek grabbed the plate and walked out of the booth, his destination the trash can in the corner. His stomach released another low rumble as he passes Stiles's seat. Derek stopped.

_Maybe. . ._

No, that's insane. Don't even think about it.

_But it smells so _good_._ Derek stole a glance at the bathroom door. _Stiles is still inside. Surely he wouldn't notice a tiny little bite. . ._

Derek set down the Green Bean Crispers, then hesitantly lowered himself before the half-eaten burger; the delicious scents very nearly overpowering him in his famished state. Tentatively, he gave the burger a wary little prod; as though it were a landmine and it would take off his head without exercised caution.

Then, apprehension fleeting briefly across his face, he took a tiny nibble on the edge; and moaned in pleasure as the bacon juices spilled onto his tongue. He put the burger back down, and satisfied that it doesn't really look any different, he started to leave; then stopped.

_Maybe. . . just another bite._

Convinced that another nibble still wouldn't be in any way noticeable, Derek once again tasted heaven dancing upon his tongue. Then, setting it back down with the immaculate attention and delicacy of an art thief, he turned to leave.

_More._

Every delightful nibble that Derek took made him feel warmer, and happier; but these rippling moments of intense joy were far too fleeting, and despite promising himself each time that it will be his last, he ends up wanting more, and _getting_ more. The nibbles grew more bold, more dauntless; even as the indentations upon the burger grew progressively larger and larger with frightening acceleration.

A little part of Derek was horrified by what was happening, but that part has, sadly, no control whatsoever over the barely recognizable _animal_ uncaringly guzzling away at the vanishing remains of what used to be Stiles's cheeseburger. He licked the salt off his lips, still far from sated; but much less not so. Derek heaved a contented sigh.

_Uh oh._

The animal slouched sneakily away into the void, abandoning the pair of now terrified wide eyes to stare in mortification at the lone lettuce leaf resting vacantly on the plate.

Sneakered footsteps echoed across bathroom tiles—springs creaking as the doorknob turns—and Derek did the only rational thing that one could possibly do in such dire situations of impending criminal discovery.

There was a scuffle as Derek hid under the table.

The red sneakers slowed down to a halt a few yards away from the booth, their owner staring at the empty seats and his equally empty plate in utter confusion.

So what if it was a stupid thing to do? Derek _panicked. _

Stiles lowered himself into his seat, the fringe of the table cloth brushing against the top of his thighs—thighs spread widely apart—and Derek tried his very best not to stare at the. . . area between. His nose was picking up scents; manly, _wonderful _scents from the place that he was most definitely not staring at, and he feels his arms drag his body forward by an involuntary inch.

Fuck, it's like the burger all over again.

"Christy?" Stiles's voice caused the alpha to jump, a violent jerk which banged the back of his head into the table.

_Ow. Not quite what he meant by doing it later._

"What was that?" asked the owner of the slightly-raised red sandals, her abrupt arrival swift and silent like the snake that she is.

It may by now be apparent to the reader that Derek wasn't really very fond of Christy.

"What was what?"

"The table—I think it just shook," said Christy slowly, and Derek locked his teeth together, his eyes wide with nervous fear. She shrugged. "Never mind, it was probably just a tremor. . . so, what did you want? I see you've finished your burger, it was delicious, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." Stiles's voice was impatient, strained. "Did you see where the other guy went? You know, the tall guy who was scowling all the time?"

Derek scowled under the table.

"You mean the vegetarian?"

"Yeah. . . the vegetarian."

"I'm afraid not, didn't he tell you where he went?" asked Christy in surprise. "Wow, he didn't even touch his Green Bean Crispers, he must have left in a hurry!"

Derek nodded in silent agreement, his hair brushing back and forth against the underside of the table.

"Damn it, where the hell did he go?" The alpha could see Stiles's fists clenching as he rose to his feet.

"Can't you just call him?"

"No, no," Stiles said quickly, presumably shaking his head. "He doesn't have a cellphone."

"No _phone_?" the waitress's voice was one of shock. Honestly, some people need to chill the fuck out; Scott had a less exaggerated reaction after learning that Derek was a werewolf. "How does he _survive?_"

"The stupid wolf just steals mine whenever he needs to text or call someone," said Stiles in frustration, an arm disappearing from view to run through his non-existent hair. "Argh, I can't believe that he just disappeared like that, without even _telling_ me."

Derek really didn't think this through. He was half-considering revealing himself and coming up with some half-assed explanation about having dropped a shirt button or something when Christy interrupted.

"Is he your boyfriend?"

Derek's heart stopped; the only sound the rapid series of impeccably timed burps from the corner booth.

"What?" Stiles said finally, stunned.

"I'm sorry—but it's just, there's this thing with the two of you. . . It's this _química_— I mean, this_ chemistry_ that just sizzles, you know? And the way you're so agitated right now, just because he's been gone for 2 minutes—I can see it in your eyes, it's not just worry there. . . is it disappointment? No. . . it's something else, something _more_."

Stiles doesn't speak, and the alpha wasn't sure if he should be upset that he couldn't see the teen's face; or _glad_.

Probably glad.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I can't believe that I just said that! It was none of my business, I completely stepped over the lin—"

"No no no," Stiles was saying in placation. "I was just a little bit surprised, that's all. I mean, me, and _that guy_? Not in a thousand years, no way. Nuh uh. Not if you paid me a million bucks. Not if _everyone_ in the _world_ paid me a million bucks. Hell, not even if a meteorite kills everybody else and my only options were him, and hooking up with Darth Vader or Peter Griffin or one of those creepy dwarves from Snow White."

The tablecloth masked irrational hurt.

"Okay. . ." Christy said doubtfully. "So—"

"Oh crap, he was my ride!" Stiles yelped in sudden realization, and the red sneakers vanished from sight; followed shortly by the ringing peals of bells, tinkling away hurriedly on the swinging glass doors.

"—are you going to pay?" Christy trailed off, addressing thin air. "Oh, _mierda_, now what do I do?"

She screamed as Derek poked his head from under the table.

Ignoring her, he slammed a fifty down on the table and stomped towards the doors, spilling the remainder of his iced tea over the head of one obnoxiously laughing frat boy as he passes the booth. The guy's mouth gaped open in disbelief, trembling from both the shocking cold and sheer outrage; but Derek didn't care, and apparently, neither did his friends; who simply laughed madly away like a pack of prepubescent hyenas.

Stiles was peering into the the side of his Camaro, his hand sheltering his squinting eyes and the tinted glass from the sun like an awning. He moved away from the car, his eyes still squinted; this time in confusion.

There was a shrill beep and a sharp click as the latches retracted, unlocking the car.

Stiles stared at Derek in surprise. "Where _were_ you?"

Derek said nothing, flinging open the door then slamming it shut as he got behind the wheel. He waited.

"Err. . . hello?" Stiles opened the passenger door and stared at the alpha, his right eyebrow cocked in questioning askance, and the irritation of being ignored.

Derek growled. A deep, savage, _murderous_ sound which bore similitude to nothing any natural beast may conjure, evocative of burning villages and the screaming people attempting to flee; in futility.

Stiles gulped.

"Right, I just remembered—we didn't pay Christy, so—"

"Get in." Derek's voice was dangerously calm, a precarious tick away from snapping.

Stiles briefly considered running away—the image of his blood splattered across the windshield a difficult premonition to ignore—but reasons that Derek would probably chase him down anyway.

Stiles secured his seat belt into place, and winced at the sharp click—a harrowing sound which declared his imprisoning bondage with an awful finality. He smiled nervously at Derek though the rear-view mirror—and Derek turned to stare back at him, sans mirror. Teeth; but no smile.

This was going to be a long ride.

~TBC~

* * *

~TBC~

1) Whew, I've finally updated—sorry for the wait guys (and by guys I mean 2 people and a cat).

2) Someone mentioned Stiles being a bit of an asshole in my story, but that's the vibe I get from him in the show, you know? I like to think that it's just a defense mechanism—and despite the gruff exterior, he's pretty nice inside actually.

3) Next up, the library!

4) Review no matter if you hate it or like it! (and again, by that I mean 2 people and a cat)


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